


Deadpool's Romantic Comedy

by Carmino (orphan_account)



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Deadpool doesn't know, Deadpool's POV, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Spideypool - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Carmino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadpool hires a cleaning person to tidy up his New York City penthouse. Peter Parker wears glasses, is adorable, and has a great ass. Spider-Man is a shameless tease. And the White-Box-Turned-Brackets is keeping some major secrets about the fourth wall from Wade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Inciting Incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The author has not read much of the comics. Will try his best. Forgive, critique, and enjoy.]

“M... Mister _Wilson?_ ”

“Yes, that is me. You're late-” There was a shuffling of paper. “-Peter... Parker. Aw, nice alliteration, it's very cute. Good for your parents, Peter.”

Wade lowered the applications and looked at the bewildered-looking kid on the other side of the door way. The kid, with wild brown hair, blue eyes with a set of nerdy black frames on his nose, and muscly lean in loose jeans and white t-shirt, stared back at him with a crestfallen expression of utter disbelief. God knows why.

[Don't. Scare. Him. Off.]

Wade smiled, a smile more sinister than he intended, not that it mattered with his mask on, and stepped aside with a grand sweeping gesture.

“Come inside my crib, cutie!”

“I-” The kid did not move, but grabbed something out of his pocket and unfolded it. A paper of crumpled newspaper, Wade noted. It was his ad-

(“Is Your Money As Tight As Your A**hole? Can You Handle A Little Sticks-n'-Dustpan Lovin'? Contact Mister W. Wilson at (XXX) XXX-XXXX or [bigboobiestrap1234567@gmail.com](mailto:bigbootytrap@hotmail.com) for the cleaning job of a lifetime! No prior experience necessary.”)

-which the kid gaped at while looking back and forth between it and Wade cladded in his black-and-red Deadpool outfit completed with all sorts of explosives and weaponry as if he'd seen a ghost. Or maybe it was the view of the dump of a penthouse behind him. Or the odor. He wouldn't know, the last six candidates ran off too quickly for him to tell.

“Uh...I don't think-” Peter began, backing away.

“You don't think _nothing_!” Wade declared, grabbing him through the door and into the apartment.

“W-Wait!” the kid protested as the exit slammed shut behind him. “I, uh, I _really_ don't think I want this job... sir.”

“Oh, what?” Wade glowered, stooping to his level so they were face to face and he could smell the kid's hot-dog-and-mustard breath as he backed the little peanut up against the door. “ _Scared_ of me?” Pause. “ _Scared_ of my apartment? The mold, the blood, the smell of decomposing dead bodies? It's scary, isn't it? Is it too filthy for you, _Pe_ ter... _Par_ ker? Too messy and disorderly for you and your perfect alliterating name?! Don't be so high and mighty! In case you forgot, my name's also an alliteration!” Peter winced and cowered under his shout.

[You have to admit, this one's cute when he's scared.]

“Are you kidding me? He's adorable!”

“What? Who are you even- Is there someone- Never mind. _What?_ ”

Instead of answering, Wade simply handed him a broom. The kid glanced at it and made a gesture of pushing it away. “No thank you. I'm, uh, I'm just going to go. Now,” he answered as he found the doorknob. The door wasn't even two inches opened when Wade kicked it shut with a swift, firm foot, making him jump.

The mercenary narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

“I, uh, I don't think that... this... job is... very safe for me,” Peter explained after a moment. “Um, with you being... Spider-Man and all! You know? Don't want the trouble, haha!”

(Wait, what?!)

“ _You think I'm Spider-Man?!_ ” he screeched.

“Your uniform-”

“Are you _blind?_ Are you _stupid_? I oughta kill you! Don't you know anything about Spider-Man, you little twerp?” he screamed. “He keeps a _super_ secret identity! He would never expose himself as carelessly as I did, that's so out of character! I printed my name in a _newspaper_ in an _ad_ I paid for myself! Although that was on purpose so it wasn't even carelessness on my part, but that's not the point. The point is, my uniform is so much cooler than his! My name! Me!” Jabbing a thumb at himself. “I! Am! Wade Wilson! AKA Deadpool! AKA The Merc With A Mouth, capital letters across the top! AKA the baddest motherfuck-” Peter was staring at him with big, blank eyes. Wade threw up his hands in righteous disgust. “You know what? Never mind. Go on and be your ignorant uncultured self, see if I care.”

“...Sooo, I can go now, right?”

[No.]

“No.”

[There are molds on the walls and ceiling.]

“I haven't cleaned this place in two years, I'm _hiring_ a cleaning lady for a reason, baby boy.”

“I'm a-”

“Fine. Cleaning _person._ ” (Sheesh. Gender specific much?)

The kid sighed. “Listen, Mister Wilson, I'd actually like to go to college and live past my twenties,” he said in a slow, careful voice that all but suggested that he was talking to a five year old. Wade ignored it. “Working for your kind of people in any way is sort of the opposite of what I should do. And I know you offered a really good pay over e-mail, but I've got an aunt to go home to and-”

“I'll triple it.”

“When do I start?”

-

Terms discussed and the contract signed, Deadpool's new penthouse keeper was due to come in from four to seven in the late afternoon on mondays and fridays to clean for a whooping rate of ninety dollars per hour. That was three times as much as the thirty dollars per hour initial offer. No extra obligations – “I'm not wearing a French maid outfit.” “I'll pay you ten more dollars.” “No.” “At least the corset? Or the skirt part?” “No!” – no extra perks – “You _sure_ you can't get me worker's insurance? What if I get hurt at work?” “I won't shoulder your medical expenses, I'll just kill you first.”

An hour and a half later, Peter Parker was on top of a five foot ladder with a scraper in hand, removing patches of mold that had grown on the kitchen ceiling like wild weed.

[He doesn't want us here.]

“What are you talking about?” Wade asked from a chair, eyes fixed on Peter, munching away on Oreo cookies.

“I didn't say anything,” Peter answered.

“Not you, the white box. Or the brackets, I guess. Since this is a written story and not a comic,” he said. “I miss it when you're a white box, White Box. What kind of story are we in anyway? Slice of life? Horror? Or...” Wade narrowed his eyes up at his new cleaning boy. “Can it be? A _porno_? I'm not too fond of sex on ladders though.”

Peter paused to give him an incredulous look, but eventually shook his head and returned to work.

[I'm not answering that.]

(But check out his _ass_.)

“Heh, it's not as nice as Spidey's ass though.”

“Are you staring at my ass?” Peter snapped.

[Can't say I agree.]

“Shut up! You have horrible tastes, I don't trust you!”

(It's _almost_ as nice as Spidey's ass.)

Peter stopped his mold-scraping and glared at Wade from on the ladder. “Mister Wilson-”

“Call me 'Deadpool the Devastating.' No, 'Deadpool the Destructor.' 'Demon Deadpool the Devil!' Wait, wait, got an even better one. 'The Big Red D!' For my big red D, obviously.”

Peter frowned. “...No.”

“'Wade' will do then.”

“Fine, _Wade_. Will you please stop ogling at me? It's uncomfortable and I can't concentrate on work.”

[See? He doesn't want us here.]

“But you're porn star material! The twinkiest of 'em twinks! What else am I supposed to stare at?”

“I'm sixteen, you pervert!”

“Age is just a number, baby!”

“Yeah, and a prison cell is just a r-” The kid closed his mouth, probably knowing that whatever he was going to say wouldn't help any. “Go... Go watch porn or something. Go to your bedroom and look at porn!”

Wade scowled. “Don't tell me what to do, you're not my mama. You're no MILF! My mama was a MILF, I tell ya! Hm, now that sounds incestuous but I swear it was true. Before she got hooked on drugs and all anyway. I've got pictures! We can look at them together after you're done.”

“I'd work a lot faster if you're not in the room with me, _Wade_.”

(Spoil sport.)

“You're lucky that you're so cute, Parker,” he hissed, grabbed the whole tray of Oreo cookies and stomped out of the kitchen.

“Can you close the door behind you too? Thanks.”

 _Bam!_ Wade slammed it with relish, putting on a right sulk. The nerve of that guy for kicking him out of his own kitchen, and just for some ass-staring too. He'd done worse to people and they daren't even look him in the eye during it!

“He only wants me for my money, I tell you!”

[Yes, that's his whole point of being the cleaning boy.]

(Shut up, Brackets.)

“Forget it, I don't need him!” Wade declared, retreating into the sanctuary that was his bedroom. He threw himself onto his bed tangling himself up in a ragged Spider-Man blanket and cuddling a worn, blood-stained pillow shaped and sewn like Spider-Man's head. Above the bed frame was a Spider-Man poster, along with several fan arts he'd printed off the internet, including a digital painting of Spider-Man and Wolverine in a rather compromising position which he commissioned himself – it was his favorite.

The rest of the walls were decorated with magazine cut-outs of Mexican cuisines.

Wade made himself comfortable on the bed and turned the TV on to the Discovery Channel. (Hey! No! Cartoon Network! Unless there's a porn channel! Is there a porn channel? Do we have cable? Ahaha! Cable... Wonder how he's doing.)

[Probably not missing you.]

(You can be so cruel, Brackets...)

An hour and a half later, there were three knocks on his bedroom door, followed by Peter sticking his head in. “Hey, listen, it's seven already. I've cleaned the kitchen ceiling and walls, and washed the dish- ...What the hell is that on your wall?!”

Wade sat up, still cuddling his Spider-Man-Head pillow. “Like it?” he asked, leering at the fan art.

“Spider-Man and Wolverine- Augh! That's gross!”

“And sexy!” he added, jumping up. “Did you know that there's a Wolverine porno out already in another dimension? Apparently, Spidey, Rogue and I have a three-way-”

A little green in the face, Peter already had his ears covered, shaking his head as if he could somehow deflect the words coming out of Wade's mouth. “No! God, no! I'm going to need to bleach out my eyes! Who the hell is Rogue?” “I don't think she's important in this story.” “Do I have to clean this room too? Because I'm either cleaning this out completely, or I'm not coming back in here _ever_. Is that a poster of enchiladas?”

“Don't be such a poop, Parker, Spider-Man would've approved.”

Peter scrunched up his face darkly. It made him look like a bunny. “I doubt it, Deadpool.”

“Oh oh, using my alias now, are we?”

The boy was brave, he'd give him that. Wade noted not even a flinch when he went up to his face. Peter, standing his ground and glaring back, wasn't retaliating a bit.

“You don't scare me.”

“I'm just admiring the mold pieces on your glasses and the way they bring out your eyes.”

The boy swiped off his glasses and wiped the lens on a part of his shirt.

"Whatever..." he said in defeat, setting the frames back on. "As I was saying, the dishes are all clean. I've washed the kitchen counter and the fridge, both inside and out. I've scraped most of the mold off, but you're going to have to buy the paint for me to paint the walls and ceilings over. For your entire penthouse. I'm estimating around ten buckets.”

“Are you always this grumpy?”

Peter's eyebrows did a funny wiggling thing. Wade pinched his cheek, only to have his hand slapped aside.

“No. Touching.”

“You're too precious,” Wade growled threateningly. [You're scaring him.] “I don't care.”

“Is there someone else in the- Forget I asked.” Peter pointed to the front door. “I'm going to go then. Don't mess up what I've already done for the kitchen. _Try_ not to.”

“Sure, sure! So I'll see you friday then.”

The boy didn't look too pleased at the thought of that. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Let me walk you out!” Wade grabbed him by the arm, but he shrugged out of the grip.

“No! No... I got it, thank you.”

And then, just like that, Peter Parker left.

(Can I just say that this is the worst porno we've ever been in?)


	2. The Action That Didn't Really Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Very late. Much sorry. Too busy. Much grammar mistakes probably. Enjoy! Also, bad Spanish.]

Thursday. Sunny. Somewhere in Queens. Bah! Queens. At least it wasn't Staten Island. God, Wade hated Staten Island.

[Why?]

“Good question,” said Wade, not really replying.

He swung down the fire escapes to the fifth floor of a particular-but-not-really-important red brick building. It was a shabby building, to say the most, and it was only relevant because someone in that building had to die by the end of the day, preferably by some quick and inconspicuous means. Someone was paying Wade fifty thousand dollars to make sure that happens. It was a small job.

Obviously, that someone was an idiot. Everyone knows that the good 'o Merc with a Mouth never half-asses his second- no, third- no, fourth favorite thing in the whole world. What could better than Mexican food, guinea pigs, pancake-'n-maple-syrup, or a good, loud assassination? 

“Say, why _did_ we skip breakfast for this?” Wade wondered out loud as he forcibly tore the window bars off, let it fall clanking down the fire escapes, and slipped inside with a pronouncing _thud_. “Number three always beats number four! Unless number four is combined with number five. Not number six, though. Bloody murders never go well with-”

_Bang! Bang!_

Two bullets blew his head off.

(Oh, c'mon, it's only seven in the morning!)

Wade dramatically fell over, limbs jutted in all sorts of directions, neck covered with his splattered brain.

“Fuckin' Fisk...” the guy with the gun swore, kicking Wade's living corpse. 

Another one chuckled. Wade could smell cigar smoke. “Can't send his men at a decen'er hour, that muthafucker... 

(Second that! I could've been doing this _after_ some bacon and maybe a burrito!)

“Hey, _perra_! Clean this dumb son of a bitch up!” 

There was a sound of rustling garbage bags. Big garbage bags.

(What was the big idea waking me up so early, Brackets? Why are you so evil lately? Is this the start of a thriller? Are you going to betray me and leave me for a Puerto Rican drug lord name Carlos because he's sexier and has a bigger dick than me? I can re-grow my dick! Can he?!)

A woman leaned over him, shook open something plastic, and started wrapping the bag around his legs.

[No, it's actually because-]

“Shh, shhh!” Wade hissed. “This is the best part!”

She stopped.

“Yo, you sure he dead?!” she turned her head and called out in her nasally voice.

“Bitch, I shot 'im twice!”

“No, he ain't dead, he just talked!”

(C'mon, getting bored!)

“Bitch you talkin' cra-” 

Wade rose up from the ground like a rising tide and drove a knife through the lady's back out her chest. She had just enough time to scream before he regathered his spilled brain and leaped to his feet with a triumphant “YEE-HAW!!” followed by a round of pistol firing at the ceiling for good measures. The residents a floor above screamed. The two men, who had gone to another room but came running back, also screamed. Basically, a lot of people were screaming, including him, and it was overall very pleasant in Wade's humble opinion. 

One of the men tried firing a few times more at various parts of his body, while the other was shouting something about meth.

“Gosh, I'm so sorry, bud!” he apologized in a higher-pitched voice than normal, then, lowering it into a growl as he aimed pistols towards both of their chests, “Wouldn't have happened if you'd watched my Breaking Bad PSA videos. Damn kids these days!”

He pulled the triggers and-

And he swore that you could actually hear the ' _thwip thwip_ ' sound effect like in a movie as the webs came tearing the guns out of his hands. And yes, it was just as gay as he'd remembered it last. He was so overjoyed that he almost welcomed that kick to his newly-healed skull. Of course, Spider-Man then had to go and ruin it by saying, “Sorry Deadpool, but this is a job for your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man!” or something equally lame. He couldn't tell. His ears were ringing too hard to make it out.

It was a good thing that that ass looked so magnificent in those tights, or Wade would've killed him a long time ago.

(I bet he got bullied really hard in high school.)

[But if he's hot, that wouldn't be likely.]

(Maybe he's one of those that got hot after high school!)

“You stupid, meddling _araña_ \- Mmph!”

“Sorry, but you guys need to shut up!” Spider-Man snapped as he _thwip_ -ed more threads around the first into a cocoon and entangled the second in a web. “I've already called the cops. I'm not in a good mood right now and I'm not playing around!”

Wade crackled as he stood up. “Oh, Spidey!” he squealed, clasping his hands together. “I love it when you get all rough and demanding!” 

_Thwip!_ A shot of sticky web covered the lower half of his face.

“Is this your way of punishing me, Spidey?” he asked lovingly through the web-wad and his mask.

Spider-Man made a fist like he was going to punch Wade in the face.

(Aww, he's so cute when he does that, don't you think? Like he's actually going to hit me!)

Spider-Man punched him in the face, sending him flying out the window and crashing into the building on the other side.

[Yes, so cute.]

“I have half a mind to leave you there webbed like those two,” Spider-Man began, swinging down to his side as he groaned and got up staggering from the concrete sidewalk. “But you'd probably be more trouble than it's worth for the police to handle, so I'm letting you off with this final warning, Deadpool.” He got up to Wade's face and jabbed a finger into the mercenary's chest. “Stay. _Out._ Of my neighborhood, and don't 'cause any trouble for me more than you already do, or there _will_ be consequences like an invasion of Russia during winter!”

“Oh baby, this is only going to be the first of our many arguments,” he replied mockingly, taking the other's hand into his own. 

There was a long, but-not-really-long-okay-probably-very-short pause on Spidey's end, before he snatched his hand away. 

“And that too!” “What?” “ _That!_ What the fuck is your problem, honestly? Just... Stop, okay? Stop hitting on me! It's the creepiest things that's ever happened to me, and that includes the time I hacked into Doc Oc's computers and found out about his  _tentacles_ porn fetish!” he shouted at Wade, backing off, murmuring angrily under his breath something along the lines of “Whatever, I'm going to be late if I argue with this guy any longer.” 

Wade watched as he shot a thread up towards a building south of them. Then, as if he hadn't made his message clear enough, he topped it off with, “Your advances are not welcome, Deadpool, and neither are you, _capisce_? Good. Goodbye!” and swung off just as polices sirens drew near.

“I have a thousand lewd comments, but which ones to say?” Wade wondered loudly, watching Spider-Man disappear down the streets.

[Are they all about his ass?]

“Of course they are! What can I say? I'm an ass-guy,” he answered, walking off just as cop cars turned the corner. “Finest ass of the five boroughs! I can write poetry to it! And I have.”

-

[I don't think this is the right way to go about it. We should turn back and head home.]

“You're no fun, Brackets. You used to be funner. Whatever happened to you?” Wade asked, leaping from a higher rooftop to a lower. The new day was quiet. The lights were out. It was three in the morning and the only source of disturbance was some raccoon eating out of a trashcan a block down the road. 

The same block down the road, precisely, was the home of one Peter Parker. The raccoon, who'd found a half eaten corn-on-cob, ran away at the sound of Wade dropping in front of a window on the second floor and kicked it open.

Peter Parker sat up screaming, arms positioned in a defensive mode. His ashy brown hair was a tussle. There was a line of drool from the corner of his mouth. 

He took a quick second to wipe it off, blinking bewilderedly, as his employer grinned and waved and plopped himself onto the bed. 

“Evenin' baby boy!”

Peter's encrusted, dark-circled eyes slowly narrowed into slits. His arms dropped and his shoulders slumped. He sighed in relief, at first, then sighed again in exasperation, drawing in a deep breath and probably preparing a string of curses. But before he could say anything, Wade expertly leaped forward and covered his mouth. 

“Shhh!” Wade took a moment to glance around vigilantly. “Not gonna lie, Petey, I'm not supposed to be here.” Peter blinked. “But I just had to see you, you know?” he whispered. “It's like how Noah went to see Allie like right after he got out of the ward and they had sex together one last time before they both pushed up daisies, only I can't die and you don't have dementia... Do you have dementia?”

The boy slapped his hands aside and gave him a confused look. “What?”

“I was referencing that movie The Notebook-”

“No, I know _that_!” Peter snapped, annoyed. “And correction, they were old, they didn't sleep together, they just slept in the same bed-”

“Are you kidding me?” Wade snapped with a huff. “They totally banged! Did we even watch the same movie?”

“I can list at least a week-worth of reasons why they did _not_ -”

(There is so much sexual tension between us right now, I'm turned on.)

“Wanna do it?”

“...”

[Oh c'mon! You didn't even _try_!]

And that was true. Peter Parker looked as if he could strangle Wade right then and there.

“Is that a no?” Wade asked.

The boy covered his face and groaned. “Deadpool-”

“Shhh! …Don't say my name, he could hear you, probably...”

He raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Spider-Man. He banned me from Queens this morning,” the mercenary explained, much to Peter's sudden unimpressed facial expression. “Again! It's the third time this month! I don't even _like_ Queens, it's why I live in Manhattan!”

“Yeah, I can't blame him,” Peter muttered drily with a sigh. “What do you want, Mister Wilson?” 

“I told you, call me Big Red D-”

“No, I'm not calling you that.”

“Sometimes people call me-”

“ _Wade._ ”

“I was just checking to see if you're coming to work tomorrow,” Wade replied in all honesty.

Dead silence. Long, dead silence. 

“Baby boy?”

“ _Don't_ call me that.”

(I think he's angry with us.)

[You don't say.]

“You woke me up at three in the morning, on a school night - day! - to see if I'm coming in for work?!” Peter screamed as loud as harsh whispering allowed him. “How did you even know where I live – Wait no, that's on my application _which I stupidly gave you when I applied for this freakin' job!_ You couldn't have just left a message on my phone or- or sent me a text-”

Wade's eyes widened just as Peter stopped himself short. “I completely forgot about texting-”

“No! Wait, no! No, no, no! _Hell_ no, don't text me!”

(Just think of all the possibilities, _all_ the dick pics!)

He let out a gleeful, excited squeal.

[Won't we get arrested since he's a minor?]

“...Oh god,” the poor boy moaned, covering his face in horror, knowing full well that it was too late. “You'll clog up my inbox with pictures of your penis, I just know it!”

“But you _will_ come and clean my apartment tomorrow, right?” Wade asked, getting back on topic now that dick pics were an affirmative 'yes.' “'Cause speaking of 'clog', the toilet's been clogged for two weeks. See, I had Indian food after I killed some guy some times ago – for celebration and all, Indian food is celebratory food - and boy that was the hugest shit I had in my life! Very brown, very explosion, like a fucking dynamite before it got really swirly!” he added, ignoring the way Peter was shaking and turning green. “You can see it, it's still there, but only if you promise to do the toilet 'cause I really need that fixed fir-”

“Get _out of my house_ ,” Peter hissed.

“But I'm not finished!” he whined.

“ _Get. OUT._ ”


	3. Rising Actions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I don't believe it either, but this one came out a lot faster. Can't decide how much I like it. Wasn't really feeling it towards the end. Tell me if I'm right. It gets the job done though, so I posted it.]

Here was the problem with Kingpin.

Wade did not like him.

That was it, that was the problem.

“Did you just say that you're _not_ gonna pay me? How does that work?” Wade growled into the phone. “'Drew too much attention'? 'Spider-Man showed up'? 'Didn't kill them fast enough'? _What_? No, I didn't! If I'd drawn so much attention, _Iron Man_ would've at least showed up! ...Oh, so I forgot to kill them the first time around. Big deal! I got distracted! The important thing is that I went back and finished the job - ...You want to say that to my face, big man? Tsk, tsk, Kingpin, buddy, listen carefully. I tolerate you because you share a name with me – _Wilson_ , which is an awesome name by the way – and because you were supposed to pay me a bucket load of money to do something I already love! And now you're not? What are you going to do next? _Change your first name?_ ”

(We should kill him! Should we kill him? I'm so angry right now that I can't decide!)

As Kingpin on the other line answered with something menacing or whatnot, Wade narrowed his eyes, clutched the phone closer to his mouth, and snarled, “How am I supposed to pay my cleaning lady now, you sick fuck?!”

Then as if on cue – or on time, actually, because it was three fifty-nine in the afternoon – there was a knock on the door. Wade went over and opened it without breaking the call. In came Peter, his mouth beginning to part at the start of a sentence, but quickly shutting up seeing that his client was on the phone.

“You won't like me when I'm angry!” Wade continued to snarl as the teen walked past him.

Peter picked a relatively clean-looking spot on the couch and set his schoolbag down.

“'Blame Spider Man'?! And ruin my chance of nailing him someday-maybe?! Are you out of your mind?!” Wade screeched, shaking the phone. He paused for another listen, then gasped. “...How dare you? I know what this is about. You probably just want him for yourself – Hey, hey, don't hang up on me. Don't- I will come after you, Fisk, like a storm of the ocean! Yeah, one of those storms that has an eye in the middle that's all calm and stuff!”

[A hurricane?]

“That's right, one of those!” he agreed with conviction. “I'll come after you like a hurricane, a _red_ one, and not because of my outfit color scheme either! It'll be because of your _blood_ and the blood of your _precious puppies_!” Then he screamed, threw his phone against the wall, took out his pistol and shot at it twice.

“That's an iPhone 5!” Peter cried.

(Yeah, our back-up is a Nokia. Even I know that's a stupid move.)

“Shut up, I do what I want!” Wade snapped. Then he shot one more time at the ceiling, turned away from the dead iPhone and...

He finally spot Peter, standing five feet away from him with arms folded across his chest, looking positively scandalized. At the sight, he immediately brightened up.

“You came!” he squealed happily, skipping over to his cleaning boy's side, hands laced together in adoration.

Peter gave him an incredulous look. “What the hell was that?” he asked.

“Oh, a client. You know how it is,” Wade answered, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “You kill people for someone and a day later they call you with all sorts of complaints 'cause you 'did it all wrong' and 'the customer's always right.' And next thing you know, they not gonna pay you 'cause they claim you did a shitty job even though you did just fine! Have you ever worked in customer service? Don't ever work in customer service. I once did for three hours, and they fired me just 'cause I cut some guy's hand off. So stupid, right? I mean, it's not _my_ fault that he doesn't have a healing factor! Worst. Job. Ever! I didn't even get paid!”

[We've never worked any customer service job.]

“Shhh!”

“I didn't say anything,” Peter said, eyebrows furrowed as he maneuvered out of Wade's half-embrace. “And, before _you_ say anything else, I'd just like to state that I'm not fixing your toilet unless you're willing to provide some serious cleaning supplies – off my paycheck too! I want a full suit, face masks, rubber gloves, cleaning bleach, and a contract with your signature on it stating that in the event that I'm hospitalized due to bathroom-related cleaning, you'll pay my medical bills. You're also banned from going anywhere near my house.”

“Define near.”

“The entire borough of Queens.”

Wade burst into a fit of maniacal laughter. “You're hilarious!”

“I'm serious,” Peter said in a deadpanned voice.

(Aww, third time seeing each other and we got an unofficial restraining order already. I'm telling you, it's meant to be!)

[...]

-

Three hours passed. Peter was gone, and the kitchen looked like... like...

“Nothingness...” a ghost of a whisper passed through Wade's lips. He gazed up. The ceiling and walls were as white as the day they were first painted; the stench of the three-coat paint job sat like poison in the air. There was not a speck of dust in any corner, not a drop of blood on any floor tiles. All the dishes were washed – all twelve months worth. The table, chairs, and counters were wiped down to the point where he could see his reflection on the surfaces. The kitchen... The kitchen was so damn _clean_.

Realizing this, Wade quickly pulled out a gun, aimed up into his mouth, and blew his own brains out. Blood and brain pieces splattered across the floor behind him as he fell over, his body draping over an ottoman, bleeding out from his skull for some good thirty seconds before his healing factor kicked in.

[What the hell was that?!]

(Gooouuuuaduuugguuuh....)

He sat up, brain-dead as he let himself regenerate.

(Huuuuuahhhuuuuuhh.)

“...uuuuhhhh...” he moaned after a while, scooping pieces of his brain back in. “Aah, there we go.”

[We just paid Peter two hundred and seventy dollars to clean-]

“It's too clean!” Wade shrieked. “It's like nobody lived here – it's like _I_ never lived here! I needed to mark my territory!” Then he paused, considering something pensively. “Oh god, is he going to do this to our bathroom too? Tell me he can't do this to our bathroom!”

[But the toilet doesn't flush anymore. Shouldn't we get that fixed?]

“No! Yes! Maybe?” he answered. “This is terrible. I don't know anymore! Things would be so much easier if I'd die. Like, I wouldn't have to worry about finding the money to pay Peter for instance. Did I mention that I'm sort of broke?” (We're broke?! Since when?!) “It's true! If Kingpin doesn't pay me, I'd be out of burrito money by next Wednesday, never mind baby boy's salary!”

Hyperventilating, he picked up the same gun, walked to a different spot in the clean kitchen and blew his brain out again.

[You know, normally, we would just kill Kingpin.]

(Hey, that's a great ideauuuuuggguuhhh....guuuuuuuh....)

-

On Saturday, Wilson Fisk's headquarter in Bronx blew up.

“That'll teach him!” Wade declared, approaching a hot dog stand half a block away. The dynamites detonated behind him while he sang. “ _Cool guys don't look at explosions~ They blow things up and then walk away~ Who's got time to watch an explosion, lalalala I-don't-know-the-rest-of-the-song._.. It's like I'm the hero of an action-crime drama!” [You're not.] “Is this an action-crime drama?” [No.] “You're no fun.”

(Kingpin would know it's us, wouldn't he?)

“Oh, he'll know it's us,” Wade said loudly as he stopped next to the stand, scaring the hot dog stand guy, who seemed frightened beyond his nerves already. “'Cause we're going to send him a text message!”

(Oooh...)

“Hey you, can I borrow your phone?” he asked the hot dog stand guy. “I broke mine yesterday.”

“P-put that gun away,” the poor dude whimpered.

Wade blinked. “What gun? I'm not-” Then he looked down, noticed the Beretta M9 in his hand, and laughed. “Sorry, sorry, haha, I forgot I even have it!” He pointed it right in the guy's face, and growled, “Now give me your phone.”

And then he sent the following text to Kingpin: _luv from bronx! Firework 2day is A+ - DP (that stands 4 Deadpool not double penetration btw <3)_

-

Monday afternoon, Peter Parker walked into the penthouse apartment, stood by the doorway for exactly five seconds and immediately walked out. Wade, blinked, utterly puzzled. “Petey! Where are you going?”

“Somewhere not here,” said Peter. “I quit, Deadpool!”

“You can't quit!”

(Is it something we did?)

[He can't _quit_!]

“I haven't even been to Queens the last three days! Is it because I said that Spidey's ass is nicer than yours? Are you mad because I haven't send you any dick pics? I haven't gotten a new phone yet!” he shouted after him. “ _Or..._ Is it because you've fallen in love with me, and now you don't want to face the fact? You have too much homework? Are you coming back soon?”

“No.”

“But I haven't paid you yet!”

That stopped him. Wade could see the wheels turning in his head as he considered the handsome amount that Wade owed him, arriving at the conclusion that as a high school student, he couldn't possibly pass the money up. Wade watched triumphantly as Peter turned around, almost as if it was painful to do so, and dragged himself back across the threshold into the apartment. Once past the door for the second time, the boy sank down on the ground, groaning, as Wade shut the door behind him.

“How do you do it? I was gone for three days! The kitchen was completely clean when I left!” Peter cried, gesturing at the wrappers and empty boxes of microwaveable food and takeaways littering the floor. Some pieces of leftovers were even sticking to the walls and ceiling.

“ _Too_ clean!” Wade argued firmly.

“What?”

“You did a terrible job last week!” he continued. “It was too clean, I had to do something!”

“Is that blood over there?”

“And there too,” Wade confirmed with a point of his finger. “I blew my brains out after you left – I _had_ to!” he added on after Peter gave him a look. “When it's too clean, it's not you anymore,” he explained. “You shouldn't be so clean, it's not good for your mental health. Cleanliness is emptiness. Cleanliness alienates you. Cleanliness leaves you with nothing and drives you into the abyss that is depression. My therapist said so!”

[We don't have a therapist.]

“Shut up!”

Peter stared at him hard. “So in another words, you _want_ me to leave some traces of filth around?”

“Especially if it looks personal!”

His cleaning boy got to work.

-

“Didn't I tell you to leave me alone, like, both times I've been here?” Peter asked, stuffing the trash into a can. “I work faster when you're not here.”

“Mm... yes, but I live here, so I do what I want,” Wade said, stuffing another handful of potato chips into his mouth as he watched some car commercial. Pieces of the chip fell around him. He picked up the remote and changed the channel. Peter picked up the pieces of fallen chips and wiped the floor.

“ _...the menace known as Spider-Man!_ ” J. Jonah Jameson's angry voice filled the room as Wade turned the volume up. “ _We at the Daily Bugle will not accept his kind of law-breaking-and-getaway-ing! This is why we are announcing this opportunity for citizens like you to contribute to our campaign against this criminal wall-crawler! Send us pictures of Spider-Man, and together we will bring this clown down! I'm counting on you, New York! And now, back to Joanna with Local News.”_

“ _Thank you,_ ” said Joanna the Anchor. “ _As we all know, last Saturday in Bronx, a property of Billionaire Wilson Fisk...”_

“They're paying _five hundred_ dollars for pictures of Spider-Man?” Peter's disbelieving voice cut through the program. “Are you kidding me?”

Wade, on the other hand, was swooning with happiness. “Look at my baby boy!" he crowed proudly. "The media's been hounding him for the past year and now it's all finally paying off. He's a rising star in demand! I hope he can take the fame, it can be hard being this famous, I would know. Hm... Maybe I should invest in a camera myself.”

“Why do you call both Spider-Man and me 'baby boy'?” Peter asked, sounding almost accusatory, and a bit worried.

“Are you jealous, Petey?” he teased.

“Do you call everyone 'baby boy'?” Peter continued, ignoring it. “Is that a thing with you or something?”

And Wade almost answered, except then he felt a tinge down his spine, like he'd always feel when something was very off, and stopped.

(...Yeah, why _is_ that?)

That was a good question.

[Uh...]

“No, I don't, actually... It's just the two of you,” Wade replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But now that I think about it...”

But before he could _really_ think it through, ninjas broke through his windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Song Deadpool was singing: Cool Guys Don't Look At Explosions - The Lonely Island]


	4. Turning Point One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter is weird. It's just _weird_ , and I should apologize for it. Also, fighting scenes are a pain to write.
> 
> Edit: Okay, so ten... fifteen minutes later after posting, I did some not-so-minor editing. Re-read if you want.]

“Ninjas?”

[Ninjas?!]

(Ninjas! _Red_ ones!)

There they were, as hard as it was for Wade to comprehend. There was a group of red ninjas who had broken through his windows and balcony door that were now charging towards him with shiny, pointy katanas as if they were going to slice him like a tuna for sushi rolls. He froze, stunned, even failing to notice Peter paling in fear a few feet over and trying to make off with his backpack.

It was all so sudden.

“Hey! Trespassing is illegal in New York City!” he finally shouted just in time when one of them impaled his chest with a blade, sending his heart into cardio arrest. Anger bubbled, and he showed it by bashing the ninja across the face with the television remote, causing the channel to change three times, and his opponent a major concussion, probably. “Go back to China, you Commies!”

[That's racist.]

“Yeah? Well, so is your _face!_ ”

[I don't have a face, I'm a voice inside your head.]

“That doesn't even make any sen- Wait, _red_ ninjas?” Wade interrupted himself, narrowing his eyes at the onslaught of enemies.

[The Hand.]

“Oooh! _Those_ guys!” He grabbed one by the head and bashed it against the wall as he happily pulled the sword out of his chest and diced up a second. “They're evil right? Did _Fisk_ send them after me?” One look at the way some of them stiffened told him that yes, Fisk did indeed send them after him. He snickered. Kingpin must've not appreciated the Bronx fireworks as much as he did.

(That guy has no sense of humor!)

“Ahahaha!“ _Bam!_ _Bam! Bam!_ Guns out. Two more bullet holes in the wall. One through a third guy's head. “He must've not gotten the healing factor memo when he hired me either!” he crowed.

“No, but we've got something else,” one of the Hand growled behind him.

Curious, Wade cranked his neck away from his last kill to see what that was about, and quickly realized that amid the fun and bloodshed, he'd forgotten someone.

“Baby boy!” he shrieked, spotting a sword at Peter's neck and the horrified I-Did-Not-Sign-Up-For-This expression the teen had on his face as he stood like a statue in the Hand's custody, dangerously close to the edge of the balcony.

(Shit! Shit! Shit!)

Wade screamed internally in hysteria. This wasn't supposed to happen. He couldn't have his cleaning lady dead, that wouldn't be right! He'd have to hire a new person all over again! And besides, Peter... Peter had been a magnificent cleaning lady. Not too many people were willing to tolerate Wade to the extent that Peter did, even if he had just threatened to leave not hours ago. He stayed and that said a lot. Wade couldn't let him die, that wouldn't be nice for anyone.

“No! Please! Not him! He's so young and has so much ahead of him!” he cried. “He was going to be a _doctor_!”

A moment of utter confusion overtook Peter's frightened expression as he muttered, “I never said I wanted to be a doctor...”

Smirking underneath his mask, as all evil people did, the ninja holding the sword pressed the blade against his captive's neck in warning. The boy tensed up and squirmed, alarmed, a small whimper escaped his lips, feeling the sharp edge threatening to dig into his throat.

“Then I suggest you listen. Put down your weapons, Deadpool.”

“Don't worry, Petey, I'll save you!” Wade promised as he dropped his gun and sword and held up both arms. “Okay, I'm listening.”

“The Kingpin is very angry with you, Deadpool,” the leader, a giant man of proportionally giant body parts, began.

“Oh yeah? He's angry, but what about me?” he pointedly snapped. “Or my cleaning lady here?!” He gestured to Peter, who managed to look mildly pissed off. “'Cause if I don't get paid, he's not getting paid-” “What do you mean I'm not getting paid?!” “-so you go tell Fisk that he can stick it up his _big fat fucking ass_ 'cause I'm angry with _him.... at_ him!” He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Is it 'with' or 'at'? I could never get it right, I didn't pay attention in geography.”

“Both are grammatically correct,” Peter answered. “But 'with' has a more personal connotation and-”

“You be quiet!” the ninja growled, angling the blade against his skin menacingly. He turned back to Wade. “I'll cut to the chase, Deadpool. You have two choices. Either you come quietly with us, or your little-”

(Pleasesay'boytoy'pleasesay'boytoy'pleasesay'boytoy'-)

“- _friend_ here dies!”

“Augh! He missed the perfect opportunity!” Wade cried, outraged. The ninjas stared at him, confused. He narrowed his eyes back, and sighed.

(Minions can be so stupid sometimes!)

“Okay, fiiine,” he drawled tiresomely. “Petey lives, I go with you to Fisk.”

The Hand leader chuckled. “I'm glad you understand.”

He gave a nod, and two of the Hand ninjas bound Wade up in ropes and handcuffs. The merc hummed, cheerily accepting it. Out the corner of his eyes, he saw Peter attempting to struggle against his own hold. 

"W-Wait-"

“Lighten up, baby boy! This isn't so bad,” Wade chirped, grinning, hoping around on his feet and making the ninjas' job all too harder. "I'll get to Fisk, I'll get the money, and we'll live happily ever after with our two adopted Eskimo babies and our poodle Frank! Huh? What do ya say?"

[It's not that much money. It's fifty thousand.]

"Don't cry, Petey, I'll be back for you!" he shouted as Peter did not cry.

"Shut him up!" the Hand leader snapped.

"Ahaha! Shutting _me_ up? The Merc With a Mouth? That's rich, Suzuki Yaoi-Hand-maru, that's real-"

That was when it all went horribly wrong.

Because the next thing he knew, they pulled off his mask.

And then Peter, upon seeing him, screamed and reeled backwards in a display of absolute repulsion.

His inside went cold.

He didn't remember much of what happened in the few tens of seconds following that, except that Peter definitely jumped off the balcony at the mere sight of his face, and he definitely tore apart the ropes and cuffs with his bare hands somehow, and began mercilessly hacking the Hand ninjas apart.

He said 'few tens of seconds' because that was exactly how long it took for Spider-Man to show up.

“Whoa! What the hell?!” the Friendly Neighborhood Superhero yelped in surprise, barely dodging Wade's sword as he came swinging in through the balcony. He landed gracefully in the middle of the fight, punching the light out of a Hand ninja on the way. “Deadpool! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Spider-Man?!” Wade exclaimed, snapping out of his rage.

“Spider-Man?!” the Hand leader hissed.

“Spider-Man!” Spider-Man agreed firmly, and round-house kicked the leader in the face.

-

Five minutes later, it was over. Wade and Spider-Man stood in the aftermath of the fight, silent. Blood and body parts littered the floor around them, and there were a few more broken furnitures than originally. The sun was setting in front of them when Spider-Man broke the ice.

“You didn't have to be so cruel,” he scolded with all the self-justifying, arrogant manners befitting a superhero. “You could've easily knocked them out instead of killing them!”

“Yeah well, I'm no hero,” Wade snapped.

The bitterness in his voice must have taken Spider-Man aback; he went quiet. Wade could feel his eyes boring into him, reading the tenseness in his body language and the uncharacteristic coldness radiating off his being. The Merc With a Mouth was silent for once, and as relieving as it must be for someone else, Wade imagined that it must've been equally off-putting, because Spider-Man was suddenly so, _so_ concerned about him.

“You're angry,” the blue-and-red-clad hero said after a moment. It came out softer than anything Wade had expected.

It made him pause.

(Are we angry?)

“Yes.”

[We're angry. Sad. Mostly angry. Mostly sad too.]

“I'll go with angry.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because we're _insane_ , that's why,” Wade answered.

(And we're ugly.)

At the voice's reminder, Wade looked the other way so he couldn't see Spider-Man seeing him, because his inside was churning and he felt like throwing up. His hand flew up to his naked face and stayed there, like it could cover the hideousness if he tried hard enough.

(We're so ugly that he'd rather jump.)

“Shut up! It's not like we didn't expect it. We'd be insane not to,” he retorted harshly. “It's what _everyone_ does! Everyone except the few people who are either as crazy as us or strong enough to not give a fuck! Like Bob and Blind Al and the superheroes and the mutants and mentally-fucked chicks like Inez and Typhoid Mary." Every breath he was taking shook him, and he could swear that he was crying blood, probably due to the fact that he'd stuck his fingers into his eye sockets, temporarily blinding himself. "It's not like Peter Parker is anyone even! I could get _Bob_ to clean my damn penthouse just fine! Sure, his ass isn't as nice but I'm a _boob_ guy anyway! Boobies are everything to me! ...I have _Spidey_ 's ass to admire, right Spidey?”

He took his hand off from his face and waved at the air in front of him.

"...Baby boy?"

Spider-Man was already gone.

Wade sank into the nearest blood-soaked cushion, feeling an oncoming wave of the kind of pain he didn't like. It was the kind that gave him stomach cramps and made him want to stab himself multiple times in the heart. The kind that his healing factor couldn't fix.

Enraged, he picked up a gun the moment his sight returned, and aimed at his temple.

 _BANG!_ He blew his brain out.

Dead for one blissful minute, Wade lay with his head tossed back as his brain cells regenerated.

[Someone's knocking on the door.]

He groaned.

[Are you going to get it?]

“Is it those new neighbors again? It's them, isn't it?!” he growled in annoyance, coming back online. “I thought they gave up threatening to get me evicted two months ago!”

The person at the door knocked persistently, getting louder.

He decidedly grabbed his blood-soaked mask off the floor somewhere, put it on, and headed over. He opened the door, growling, “You're lucky that you have kids, or I would've-”

It was Peter.

Wade gaped.

Peter arched his eyebrows, staring back.

“Are you going to let me in?”

Wade slammed the door in his face.

(No! Wait! Why did we do that for?!)

“I panicked! Why did he come back? I thought we scared him off!” he screamed at himself, all bewildered. “How did he survive the fall?!”

(Then let's open the door and ask him before he runs off!)

He re-opened the door. Peter stood on the other side in the same spot, an uncomfortable look on his face. “Okay, I probably deserved that,” the boy muttered. He lowered his head, gazed up at Wade, and gestured into the apartment, as if asking permission to enter. It took Wade a stunned while to realize that he was, in fact, asking permission. “May I?”

Wade stepped aside and let him in, finding himself speechless.

The door shut behind them.

Peter walked around the blood puddles and wrinkled his nose at the bodies, and remained standing with his hands stuck deep in his pockets.

“I'm sorry!” he blurted out after minutes of being stared at. “I'm sorry... I shouldn't have screamed. I... I didn't mean to. It just sort of, um... came out of me.”

(Is he apologizing to us?)

Wade narrowed his eyes.

“I don't need your pity. Or your excuses,” he said darkly, crossing his arms. “So you finally see what I look like and now you're back to apologize 'cause you feel sorry for poor ol' Quase Motou.” “You mean Quasimodo?” “Why? Will it help you sleep better at night knowing that you didn't hurt the guy with the cancer sores' feelings? Or do you think that I'd kill you otherwise? 'Cause I was tempted there, I tell ya! What are you, Parker? Sixteen, right? If you're old enough to consent to some dick-in-ass actions, you're old enough for me to kill, and I have happily killed other people over being scared of me!”

Peter frowned and crossed his arms as well. “Then the joke's on you 'cause the age of consent around here is seventeen!”

“It is?!” Wade squawked.

[It is.]

“Damn you, New York!” he cursed. “Fine, fine, you live... Do you mean to tell me that in all the time that I complimented your booty and tried all those moves on you, you can't even legally _consent_ yet?”

“You also stalked me,” Peter pointed out. “And you shouldn't be sexually harassing anyone regardless of their age.”

“In my defense, I wasn't serious,” he argued. “Your ass wasn't as nice as Spidey's.”

That seemed to shut Peter up pretty quickly. The boy took a deep breath and rubbed his temple.

“So, what do you want me to do with... this?” he asked Wade, motioning to the corpses.

“What?”

“I'm supposed to be your cleaning lady, right? There's still half an hour left of my shift today, and I can stay overtime... Assuming you didn't fire me?”

Wade blinked. “You're... not going to quit?”

(I think he likes us!)

He squealed happily.

-

"Here, drink this."

Wade drank the weird, purple liquid in the glass, and spat out half of it. "This isn't wine!"

"No it's not. I lied," Peter said, grabbing him by the cheeks and pouring the rest down his throat. The merc begrudgingly downed the content.

"Are you trying to poison me? 'Cause if you do, I happen to like diarrhea!"

[No we don't!]

(Yes we do!)

Peter made a face and reached for his mask. He turned away on instinct.

“Hey, it's okay. I just want to take a look. Besides, your mask is filthy, you should take it off anyway.”

So off came the mask, plopping into a basin of water beside them. Wade sat in the chair, exposed and terrified, but strangely grinning like a madman as Peter calmly examined his face with the curiousity of a monkey. His grin faltered the instant he saw the boy wrinkling his nose in disgust. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Your breath stinks,” Peter commented. “Actually, you stink as a whole. When was the last time you _took_ a shower or brushed your teeth?”

“This morning.”

“Really?” He peered at Wade suspiciously.

Wade bared his pearly whites, a short-lived display that got cut off by a warm, wet towel to the face.

“There's blood all over you,” Peter said, scrubbing the blood crusts and other sorts of crusts off of him a little too furiously for his liking, stopping only when one of the few sores on his face ruptured and poured fresh blood. Big blue eyes widened as the towel pressed against the bleeding sore in panic.

Wade cracked up, slowly feeling himself sinking into a state of delirium by the warmth of the cloth and Peter's alien tenderness.

“Oh, right, healing factor,” the boy muttered, pulling back.

Wade relaxed.

(This feels... good.)

[Why are we letting him do this to us?]

(Are we dreaming? Is this part of a dream sequence? Is it all a dream?]

[No.]

(It feels like one.)

"What did you put in that drink you gave me?"

"Some over-the-counter," Peter answered with a cough, meaning that he'd put _a lot_ more than just 'some' or 'over-the-counter'. Understandable, what was with Wade's healing factor and all. It had tasted like half a bottle of blueberry gone wrong. "Why, are you feeling drowsy?"

"Yeah... You're evil."

“Did you shoot yourself in the head again?” he asked, ignoring the statement and pointing towards a healing spot on the side of Wade's head.

“Yep!”

“You shouldn't do that anymore.”

“I do what I want, baby boy,” he said, as snidely as he was tired, earning a roll of eyes.

His eyelids drooped.

"Peter, I'm broke. I don't even have money for tacos."

"I know. It's okay."

The hot towel came back to clean the rest of the blood from his face.

“There are, um, skin creams for... your sort of thing,” Peter said. “They aren't cures or anything, obviously, and they won't make it go away. But they'd help with the pain and the itching. I'll bring some over next time.”

“How do you know they hurt?”

“Because they look like they do?”

(He's being too nice to me. This is a dream. I'm too calm and happy for it to be anything else.)

So he asked. “Is this a dream?”

“...No? But you should sleep,” Peter replied, yawning. He guessed that today must have taken tolls on both of them. “It's eleven in the evening. I've got to get home. Aunt May must be worrying about me.”

(Okay.)

[...Okay?]

“Okay.”

[Hey, we never asked him how he survived the fall.]

(Too late.)

Wade dutifully fell asleep, the last thing he felt being a pair of hands tucking a blanket around his neck.


End file.
